Sherlock Holmes and the Blank Generation
by Cececat
Summary: John Watson is a young, strangely innocent Vietnam veteran in need of a fresh start. Sherlock Holmes is an electric violinist and consulting detective in need of a roommate/sidekick. Together they solve mysteries for Warhol superstars, punk rockers, and other depraved New Yorkers. [All the pictures on the cover will relate to the story eventually] (Please Read & Review!)
1. Leaving Vietnam Behind

**Disclaimer: I don't own _Sherlock Holmes._**

 **A/N: Watson is the narrator - just like in the original stories. Of course, he isn't really the Watson we all know and love. Nor is Holmes. I wanted things to be a bit different, a bit more original. Hopefully that doesn't bother people.  
**

 **Also, Holmes doesn't show up until the next chapter. 'Doug' leads Watson to Holmes.  
**

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'Nam was a nightmare.

Sometimes I can't even bring myself to think about it. None of it made any sense at the time. We were children, shipped across the globe to die. I was drafted at age 18. It was all a blur. One minute I was being checked over by a doctor, the next I was in a foreign country fighting for my life. I quickly learned not to get attached to anyone, or even memorize names. For the sake of my own sanity I became a near-sociopath.

After two years they brought me - and many others - home. That is, back to the United States.

I returned to my parent's house in Maryland, though I only lasted a fortnight there. I knew I didn't belong there anymore. People didn't look at me the way they had. I think some of the neighbors envied my family. Why had I survived, while so many others didn't? Why hadn't Jim or Steven or Paul returned?

To make matters worse I'd also became rather disruptive. It wasn't even intentional, though my Dad seemed to think so. He called me weak. At night I tossed and turned, reliving the deaths of fellow soldiers. Everything startled me. Shadows and memories haunted me. Sometimes I lashed out a people I loved. Before the war I'd been a likeable, talkative kid with many friends. Keeping secrets, avoiding people, brooding, hiding... the young John Watson would've never done that.

Suddenly I didn't know who I was anymore. War changes people - especially the bright-eyed, innocent boys who do all the real fighting. None of us knew what we were getting into.

Things weren't working. I need to leave my family and find a new place to call home. Somewhere the old John had never visited. Somewhere in which the new John could live out his life. Somewhere people wouldn't be bothered by the coldness and the paranoia.

And where did I go? New York City, obviously. Where else do outsiders and loners and all other oddities end up?

So, exactly two weeks after I've arrived in town, I took a bus to the city. Mother paid for the ticket and a few new shirts. Father didn't even bother saying goodbye. I'd become to much of an embarrassment to him. If only the bastard had been there, too… scared every moment, surrounded by suffering. Squares became druggies and patriots deserted.

As the old bus steadily drove through town and farmlands, I began to think about what I'd do once we actually arrived in New York. At the time I had about $100 (mostly in cash). That wouldn't last too long, though it would probably be enough for a few days. There was also the military pension. I still didn't have that totally figured out, though. Not to mention it probably wouldn't be enough to live on unless I shared, say, living expenses with someone.

A roommate would be useful, I thought to myself.

At some point I fell asleep. For once I was not plagued with nightmares. This was certainly a good thing.

I awoke just as we arrived in the city. It was already quite late in the evening by then. Due to the darkness, I tripped over my own suitcase as everyone got off the bus. The ground was of unpleasant concrete. The palm of my right hand stung painfully and my left knee was skinned. Worst of all, my jeans were torn. I wondered if

"What the fuck are you doing on the ground, man?" asked a voice.

I looked up to see a man with shaggy, almost-shoulder-length brown hair. Strangely enough he didn't appear to be a hippie. No, hippies don't wear black leather jackets and dark skinny jeans. He also didn't seem much older than me. There was an oddly childish look to his face, a prankster's gleam in his eye. Sort of like Iggy… yet girlier, sweeter. I'm not quite sure how to describe it.

"What's your name, boy?" he asked, grinning like the Artful Dodger.

"Watson. John Watson," I replied, sitting up. "Who are you?

"I go by many names..."

"What should I call you?"

"Doug."

There was an awkward pause. Then, he knelt down and grabbed my right hand. Before I could respond in any way he'd pulled me into a standing position. That's when I noticed that - though thin - he was clearly pretty strong.

"Thanks, Doug," I said, a bit nervously.

"You are welcome!"

Again, a pause.

Then…

"You don't know of any nearby hotels, do you?" I asked.

Doug shook his head. "Not any good ones."

"What do you mean?"

"This is the heart of New York City. Nobody gives a fuck about us anymore. The cockroach-exterminators and proper cleaning people have long since abandoned this godforsaken place. There are rats and shit like that everywhere. You must avoid them, young man."

"How?"

"Stay with me, for now."

I stared at him for a moment. Despite the jacket, he didn't seem very dangerous. What harm could one guy do? Anyway, I knew that alienating people the moment I arrived probably wouldn't be the greatest idea. This Doug guy seemed really nice.

"I can carry your case, if you'd like," Doug said, smiling happily.

"Just… don't steal it, okay?" I replied, handing it over.

"Why would I _ever_ do that?"

I didn't bother answering, for fear of offending him.

Luckily, he didn't seem interested in stealing my stuff. He happily led me down the street to a brownstone building only a few blocks from the bus stop. I followed him carefully up the steps. When we go to the door he handed me my suitcase, then unlocked it with a key hidden in his jeans. Quickly enough he'd unlocked it. We then walked up another set of stairs to the second floor. Here there was another door, which he unlocked with a different key.

"Home sweet home," he said happily, as we stepped over the threshold.

It was a rather cramped little place. There was a sofa, a few mismatched wooden chairs, and a round rickety table. The only light sources were a (currently lit) lightbulb hanging precariously from the ceiling and an extremely grimy window. There were also a few unlit candles on the table. One of these was in a chipped tea cup. It was all rather strange.

There were two other doors, presumably leading to a bathroom and a bedroom.

"You can sleep on my sofa until tomorrow morning, Watson," Doug told me. "I'm sure we'll be able to find you more permanent lodgings tomorrow."

I thanked him, then passed out on the sofa. It had been a long, long day… even with the little nap of mine.

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	2. Who is Sherlock Holmes?

**Disclaimer: I don't own Holmes or any other related characters. They belong to, er, everyone... given that they're public domain most places.  
**

 **A/N: Doug is supposed to be a fictionalized version of Douglas "Dee Dee Ramone" Colvin. Of course, he's becoming so weird that I feel bad saying he's based on a real person. Still, I do plan to have 'da bruddahs' [Ramones] show up at some point. Please don't be angry, my fellow Holmes fans.**

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The next day I awoke to the sound of Doug shrieking… as well as some sort of slamming sound. It was a rather funny sound, his anguished cries. He sounded like a monkey or perhaps a rare tropical bird. If Douglas weren't my only friend I would've laughed. What a sound! I felt so at home. My brooding and nightmares and coldness were far less frightening than this. For the first time since returning from the war I wasn't the weirdest person in site.

"Fucking matches! Ohhh shhit, that hurt! Fuck! Ow!" Doug screamed.

Groggily, I finally opened my eyes. Doug was jumping up and down, while obsessively rubbing his right thumb and screaming random obscenities. The "slamming" I'd heard was the sound of his sneakers hitting the poor, unsuspecting floorboards. It occured to me that they were the same beat-up Converse shoes he's been wearing the day before. Also like yesterday, he had on a pair of skinny jeans. I've never seen someone move around that much - and in such panic - in pants so tight. It was astounding. He also wore a short-sleeved tee shirt with the amusing words "villain, I have done thy mother" printed on them. As he flailed foolishly, I noticed that the veins on his arms were scarred. _Heroin,_ I thought. Perhaps it wasn't wise to trust the first person you met someplace, no matter how kind.

"What's happened?" I asked, slowly moving to a sitting position.

"Matches. I burned my fucking finger!" Doug replied, in agony.

I furrowed my brow. "What do you need matches for, anyhow? The sunlight is already-"

"I need fire to cook up," he said, sharply.

"Cook up what? Breakfast?"

A look of great surprise appeared on Doug's face, replacing the look of (somewhat exaggerated) pain. He stopped jumping and stared at me in wonder.

"Oh my God. You're so innocent. I love you."

I wasn't quite sure how to respond, so I stared at him vaguely. He stared back at me in amusement.

"You are a very green boy." He paused, then said: "Heroin. Smack. Horse. Junk. Skag, if you're a Brit. Cooking up is putting some in a spoon with saline, heating it, and then sucking it up with the needle. It's then injecting right in your arm. Whaaat, you've never met a junkie?"

"I have, though I pretended they weren't human," I told him without thinking. Then, I blushed.

"That's a mean thing to do," he replied, frowning.

Now I felt rather bad. "Look, Doug… I don't have anything against drug users. It's just that, when I was fighting in Vietnam, people died everyday. I had to think of my fellow soldiers as inhuman. If I treated them like humans I wouldn't have been able to deal with what was going on. The grief would've driven me insane. It didn't matter if those men were druggies, squares, blacks, whites, Jews, catholics, or anything. My ability to care about anyone had to be shut off."

Doug still looked a bit puzzled. Still, he managed to reply: "I understand, boy."

An awkward silence ensued.

Finally, I realized something. "You said I could stay here for a little while, yes?"

My new friend nodded. "I did."

"How soon is a while? When will you decide to, well, kick me out?"

"Whenever you want me to," he replied with a shrug.

"Well, I don't ever want to sleep on that sofa again," I said thoughtfully. "Can you help me find a hotel or something today?"

A wicked smile appeared on Doug's boyish face. "If you can help me prepare my morning fix."

And so, I helped him light two of the candles ("in case one goes out"). Then I watched him melt a bit of powder on a charred spoon and, with his trusty syringe, suck it through a stretched-out cotton ball. After poking around for a vein, he proceeded to inject the milky mixture. I'll never understand why people use narcotics. It's horrifying. Of course, he seemed to find it soothing. With a blissful, spaced-out smile on his face he collapsed into one of the chairs. As he did so I blew out the two candles.

For a moment he sat there struggling to breathe properly. I would've tried to help somehow if he didn't seem so nonchalant. It seemed that this breathlessness was

Finally, he spoke. "There's a newspaper… by the door. Many… people post ads… in the classifieds. There's always someone looking for a roommate."

An awkward silence ensued.

Finally, I realized something. "You said I could stay here for a little while, yes?"

My new friend nodded. "I did."

"How soon is a while? When will you decide to, well, kick me out?"

"Whenever you want me to," he replied with a shrug.

"Well, I don't ever want to sleep on that sofa again," I said thoughtfully. "Can you help me find a hotel or something today?"

A wicked smile appeared on Doug's boyish face. "If you can help me prepare my morning fix."

And so, I helped him light two of the candles ("in case one goes out"). Then I watched him melt a bit of powder on a charred spoon and, with his trusty syringe, suck it through a stretched-out cotton ball. After poking around for a vein, he proceeded to inject the milky mixture. I'll never understand why people use narcotics. It's horrifying. Of course, he seemed to find it soothing. With a blissful, spaced-out smile on his face he collapsed into one of the chairs. As he did so I blew out the two candles.

For a moment he sat there struggling to breathe properly. I would've tried to help somehow if he didn't seem so nonchalant. It seemed that this breathlessness was

Finally, he spoke. "There's a newspaper… by the door. Many… people post ads. There's always someone... looking for a roommate."

I flipped to the classifieds. Then, I skimmed through it for a few minutes. Soon enough I spotted one that really stood out.

"Here's something!" I said, pointing to the ad.

"Whatsit say?"

"Apparently someone called Sherlock Holmes needs a rather specialized roommate. 'In search of a young man who can endure hours of droning violins, lift at least fifty pounds, and not be bothered by hypodermics scattered everywhere. An interest in the Stooges and the Velvet Underground always helps'." I laughed, somewhat nervously, then added: "As long as he's joking about the needles, this sounds good."

That's when I noticed that Doug's eyes were as wide as saucers (though his pupils remained pin-pointed).

"Oh, he's serious. That bastard... is a total lunatic. Ha!"

"You know him?"

"Everyone does! He's fucking crazy… yeah, but he's also… useful."

"Useful?"

"Yes, he's a detective. Solves crimes… for junkies… musicians… criminal types. People who… can't… trust the cops.."

I looked down at the ad again. At the bottom there was a phone number - presumably Holmes'.

"Where's the nearest phone booth?" I asked, glancing back at Doug.

Much to my annoyance, he'd fallen asleep. That meant I'd need to find a phone myself.

After retrieving a few coins out of my jacket pocket I left the small apartment. As I began to walk down the stairs I heard a voice behind me. A woman's voice, in fact…

"Who the hell are you?"

Slightly bothered by the swearing, I turned around. There stood a pretty, Jewish-looking girl with a strangely sultry smile. Her dark hair didn't appear to be very clean and her dress was held together by safety pins (I later learned that this was considered fashionable). Of course, the shabbiness only added to her charm.

"Who are you?" I replied.  
"My name is Mary and I live in the flat above Doug's." She eyed me with slight suspicion. "You're a friend of his, yes?"

"We only met yesterday, actually."

"And you're leaving already? Why, most people consider him rather charming! It's the boyish face, the false ditziness, and the girly haircut - if you ask me."

"I do find him charming and I'm not leaving," I told her. "No, I'm just going to look for a phone. There's someone I need to call."

Mary smiled brightly. "Oh, I've got a phone. Would you like to borrow it? I'll let you do so for free."

So I borrowed Mary's phone. The call was pretty short. Apparently nobody else had shown any interest in sharing a flat with Sherlock Holmes. This worried me slightly. Still, virtually anything was better than sleeping on Doug's sofa again. I told the man who'd picked up the phone - presumably Holmes - that I'd meet him outside the Hotel Chelsea at exactly twelve o'clock. Given that it was only nine or so, I had enough time to ask someone (probably Mary) where and what the Hotel Chelsea was.

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	3. Janis Joplin Lookalikes & New Roommates

**Disclaimer: I don't own _Sherlock Holmes_. **

**A/N: In this chapter, John Watson unknowingly encounters Janis Joplin and Patti Smith. This story is going to be full of little cameos like that - some of which border on historically inaccurate (I might bring in people from the London punk scene, even though this takes place in the late 1960s to early '70s). Soon enough we'll encounter versions of Sherlockian characters (Moriarty,), too. Mrs. Hudson shows up in this chapter, in fact. Now she's a widowed resident at the Hotel Chelsea who helps look after other, younger guests.  
**

 **Also, this is where Watson starts to run out of luck. He learns not to trust everyone he meets.**

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The Hotel Chelsea turned out to be an impressive, if slightly seedy, building covered in wiry-looking fire escapes. The bricks were of a rich red, accented with pale yellow trim. In the 1890s it was probably breathtakingly beautiful. Even now it's extremely elegant. Like a gorgeous woman who has faded and aged, yet retains her delicate figure and fine bone structure.

After stepping beneath the red and white striped awning and stepping through the doors I found myself in the most amazing lobby.

There was artwork everywhere. Each piece was totally different in every way. Some were surreal works, other realistic and traditional. A blocky, art-deco portrait of a woman to a large, grand painting of a horses head. It was sort of like a 'singles' version of Noah's ark. There was one of everything - here in this little room. Remarkably, it all fit.

After recovering from the overload of art, I noticed the couches. Ugly and grey, they lined the lobby like sheep huddling in corners. Upon them sat a variety of eccentric persons. They smoked and chatted softly. One of the woman looked remarkably like Janis Joplin, the singer, though it obviously wasn't her. What would she be doing in a seedy New York City hotel? Wasn't she from California?

Puzzled, I stared at her for a moment. She had the warmest, friendliest smile I'd seen in my entire life. It appeared to take up at least half of her gawky face. Between that and the huge, round glasses it was no wonder I couldn't tell who she was. Her bangles jingled like merry bells as she moved her hands about, talking brightly to the solemn, dark-haired girl sitting beside her. The Joplin-lookalike was absolutely covered in beads and scarves and feathers. I'd never seen anything like it before.

Soon enough it occurred to me that staring at this woman was rude. Blushing, I began to walk farther into the lobby. Before I could get too far, however, I heard someone clear their throat. This startled me. I turned around to see a slightly portly, middle-aged woman. There was something rather librarian-like about her. Was it the amount of tweed? Or, perhaps, the reading glasses she wore on a chain 'round her neck? I'm still not sure.

"Are you, by any chance, John Watson?" she asked, eyeing me.

I answered in the affirmative. This brought a funny little smile to her face.

"Ah! Sherlock Holmes is waiting for you, in room 221. That's the one he plans on renting."

And so, I was led up the stairs and through a few hallways. It all happened pretty quickly. So quickly, in fact, that I wasn't even able to get a good look at the artwork that surrounded the stairs. The place was like museum in which one could live, really it was. I think I even spotted a few Warhols out of the corner of my eye. What an astounding place!

The door to 221 was open when we arrived.

"Go on in," Mrs. Hudson told me.

So I did. The first room was pretty empty. In fact, the only furnishings were an old chair and a small table. I kept walking, soon finding myself in a slightly larger bedroom. Most of the floorspace was taken up by two shabby beds. It looked rather sordid. Still, anything was better than Doug's ratty old sofa.

In the middle of the room there stood a tall, thin young man wearing skinny jeans and an old, brown turtleneck sweater. His eyes were a piercing, lively green - his hair slightly long, messy, and a dark brown. There was something so very alive about him… so intense. At first sight I knew there was something important about. He was just one of those people.

It was Sherlock Holmes.

He was checking over some notes in a leather little book. A few boxes - no doubt his belongings - were piled in the corner.

"You're John Watson, yes?" he said, without looking up.

"I am."

Then, Holmes turned around and smiled warmly. "Welcome. It's interesting, having a soldier here. Most of us have learned to avoid things like the draft."

"How did you kn-"

"It's how you stand, Watson. Only soldiers move in such a stiff, official way and have that militant posture. Even nervous ones like you."

"'Nervous'? You barel-"

"You're blushing. Even Mrs. Hudson can see that!"

She sighed. "Don't worry, he always does this."

Holmes continued to stare at me, analyzing. "Hmm. You're from the suburbs, the safe suburbs. Hence the expensive watch you wear proudly and openly on your wrist. Here that's asking for trouble. That golf shirt - something worn only by older men who actually golf and suburbans teens trying to impress - belongs at a country club like the one your father belongs to. No, I don't know him - your suitcase has the logo, see?"

I did see. Holmes' analysis amazed me!

"How do you did it?"  
"I observe everything. Can't help it, in fact," he replied, then added: "Have I scared you?"

"No. You've amazed me!"

At this, Mrs. Hudson burst into hysterical laughter.

"What's so funny?" I asked, puzzled.

"Usually my deductions terrify people. That's why I've had so much trouble finding a roommate. That, and my work."

"What work?"

"You see, dear Watson, I am a detective. Well, I'm also in a band or two. Who isn't?"

I wasn't sure how to answer, so I merely said: "What sort of detective?"

"The sort who solves crimes for criminals. When drug addicts or petty thieves need a private detective I'm the person they go to. I keep the peace, while the police just arrest everyone and piss people off."

"Do you learn a lot as a detective?"

"Of course not - that's why I need a roommate to help pay for things." He paused. "On the phone, you said you'd brought enough money to last a few weeks while you went looking for a job. How much money do you have left, right now?"

I searched through my coat, my suitcase, even my jeans. None of my money could be found! Every single bill had disappeared... somehow...

"It's gone!" I cried, shocked.

"Where did you stay last night, again?" Holmes asked, almost smiling.

"Doug's place."

"Ah." He chuckled. "Do you know what Doug does for a living?"

"No..."

"Officially, he's a musician. Yet gigs never pay well and, like most of the locals, he's got a drug habit. Out of necessity he's also a gay rent boy, despite being heterosexual. He's always in need of money."

Finally, it dawned on me. "Doug stole all my cash, didn't he?"

"Well, yes. Who could blame him? He must've been so pleased when someone as innocent as you waltzed into his life." Again, Holmes chuckled. "You're a bit too naive for the big city."

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	4. The First Case

**Disclaimer: I don't own _Sherlock Holmes._**

 **A/N: I will admit, the indifference Watson displays at times is a bit odd. His reaction to the weird partying and to his watch being sold... why, they are almost too passive. The idea was originally that he was still 'numbed' from fighting. He'd trained himself to not feel the emotional pain around him and, now, he can't seem to un-train himself. As the story goes on he'll get better. The romance with Mary with presumably help.  
**

 **It 'helps' that I, the author, have been a bit hopped-up these past few days (I found a bottle of pills on Saturday and couldn't resist snatching some). I can't wait for the last dose to wear off. All the passion has gone from my personality. It's actually a bit frightening... though I don't care. I don't care about anything. That's the mindset pills give me. Ye Gods. I wonder if there's a way to make the drugs 'leave' quicker. Drinking lots of water didn't do much. Perhaps I should Google it. Google knows everything... ha.  
**

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Two hours later the apartment was ours.

Of course, my beloved watch was also gone… which wasn't so good. I'd gotten it as an 16th-birthday gift from an uncle or aunt. While I was in Vietnam it remained in my childhood bedroom, locked in a drawer. Safely preserved. There was something comforting about the sight of it - especially now that I was alone in a suspiciously friendly city. Selling it was like abandoning the last fragments of Old John. Such an idea sounded strangely traumatizing.

Oddly enough, it was far easier done than said. The man we sold it to looked remarkably like Fagan from Oliver Twist. I'll remember that forever, I think. His ratty, red hair… the oversized, tacky dressing gown he wore… the way his beady little eyes lit up at the sight of my watch. The decaying brownstone building in which he resided really fit with the Dickensian image. Who knew New York could be so much like Victorian London?

Anyway. The apartment was ours, my watch had been sold to a strange man, and I'd made another friend.

Together we shopped for some cheap furniture. I used up the last of the money we'd gotten for the watch buying a typewriter. Even if I couldn't find traditional work, I hoped I'd be able to earn something by writing. In high school I'd edited the school newsletters and the magazine. It seemed likely that short articles - such as the one you're reading now - might interest people. So far my adventures in New York City had been amusing, from a certain perspective.

At about five someone ordered a few cheap pizzas in our honor and there was a sort of miniature party in the lobby. Half the people didn't seem to understand who or what the party was for. Of course, that didn't stop them from having fun. Bottles of liquor, lighters, funny little hand-rolled cigarettes, and guitars were passed around at random. Doug showed up at some point, with a few people in tow. The Janis Joplin lookalike and her dark, butch friend were there… along with a handsome photographer who seemed to know the quieter girl intimately. There were also a variety of oddities. Uniquely beautiful women with heavy makeup, men in glittering gowns.

I'd never seen so many pairs of skinny jeans in my entire life... or so many scarred veins.

The conversations, too, were strange. At least 90% of the guests were artists of some kind. They spoke of concert venues, art galleries, experimental theatre, and the 'silver factory'. The latter is apparently where Andy Warhol holds court. Drugs also seemed to be a favorite topic. Even Holmes had something to say about that. Apparently, he knew how to tell which dealer a sample of heroin came from with minimal effort. It amazed me that anyone would bother studying such a thing. Still, Holmes claimed that such knowledge often came in useful.

Not long after the party, a tearful young woman arrived at our room. Since I was still busy unpacking my clothes into my the dresser I heard her before I saw her. First came the sound of the front door creaking open. Then, the click-clack of her heels stepping over the threshold. And, finally, her voice...

"Are you Sherlock Holmes?" she asked, sniffling slightly.

"Yes." A pause. "You've come to seek my help, right?"

"Mmhmm."

That's when I finally decided to go see who the guest was. I stood up, made my way across the already cluttered room, and opened the door. There she stood - dressed in slightly oversized grey sweater-dress and clutching a worn leather jacket. To my surprise, it was the woman I'd borrowed the phone from.

"Mary!" I gasped.

She turned, spotted me, stopped crying, and then said: "You borrowed my phone this morning, didn't you?"

"To call Holmes about this very apartment."

Now, Sherlock Holmes looked somewhat cross. Clearly he'd been interested in what Mary had to say. I blushed, retreating back into the bedroom. From there I watched and listened to their conversation.

"What's wrong?" Holmes asked her, calmly.

"My boyfriend," she whispered wetly.

"Is he causing trouble for you?"

"No! He's… had too much."

"He overdosed?"

"Yes."

"What substance?"

"Heroin. That's what he liked best… good old Jamie…"

Then, she began to weep. It hurt me greatly to see her like that. All of a sudden I felt very protective of this sweet, delicate young woman. I wanted to comfort her, look after her.

"I don't me to be insensitive, Miss, yet this seems to be out of my jurisdiction. If he overdosed, he overdosed. Nobody can bring him back, not even Sherlock Holmes."

Mary glared at him. "I know. That's not the problem. You see, I've begun to suspect that Jamie was murdered."

"Why?" Holmes asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Something about this feels… off."

"Does he have enemies?"

"Who doesn't?"

A slight, clever smirk appeared on his face. "My new roommate. He hardly has any friends either."

"I'm new here," I pointed out, rather loudly. "It's not like I'm reclusive or lacking in social skills."

"I never said having no friends was a bad thing," Holmes reminded me kindly.

This made Mary laugh, for some reason. Then Holmes gave her a Look of some kind and she adopted a more serious expression. Holmes certainly seemed to approve. I did not, however. Not that my opinion mattered to any of my strange, new friends in this strange, new world.

"Will you take my case?" Mary asked.

"Yes," Holmes replied simply.

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**

 **A/N: The original Holmes did cocaine, which is an upper of sorts. Yet I'm not sure if _my_ Holmes should be a speed freak or a junkie. I'm thinking about the latter. It's more fitting in some ways. If I needed to zone out and think about something I'd go for an opioid. They make you retreat into your mind. I remember thinking, once, that the world seemed 'swimmy'. Metaphorically, everything that wasn't happening inside blurred into something meaningless. If Holmes needs to zone out and focus solely on his own thoughts, poppies might help. **

**What does coke do, anyway? All I know is that it temporarily made David Bowie a facist (or so I like to joke).  
**


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